If At First
by Partly
Summary: It's hard to save the world when you only have four hours at a time to do it.


"Dad! Don't!"

Dean's shout echoed across the frozen field. John Winchester looked up for a second, confusion plain on his face. He held a lighter over a pile of wood, dirt and bones.

The bag of supplies Dean carried dug painfully into his leg as he ran. "Wait!" His head pounded and he couldn't catch his breath. He stumbled and hit the frozen ground hard. Coughed up blood. Pushed himself to his feet. Ran on.

Ten yards away, Dean saw a shadow of darkness surging against the layer of salt John had covered the pile of debris with. Inside that darkness, Dean could see a sliver of light; white again the dark. The shadow shuddered, a piece of wood shifted, the sound loud enough to carry to Dean.

John looked away from Dean, flicked his lighter on and dropped it onto the now quaking pile.

"No!"

A bonfire erupted. The blackness exploded out of the flames and the light shot out with it, both heading to Dean. Circling around him. Circling. Circling. A low, hoarse whispering echoed with the spinning light. "Live again. Live again."

* * *

The world spun. A nauseatingly familiar melding of colors and sounds swirled around Dean. The outside edges stilled first, spiraling inward like a draining sink, solidifying into his freshman math class until the only thing that churned was Dean's stomach

"Are you alright, Dean?" The voice of his teacher was painfully loud.

"I think I'm going to be sick, Mr. Bancroft." He covered his mouth with his hand and fought down urge to actually throw up all over the teacher's feet. The nausea was getting worse each time, as was the headache that throbbed at the back of his head.

Bancroft blanched and pointed to the door. Dean bolted out into the hall, racing for the exit at the far end. The cold winter wind stole his breath. He gripped the metal railing on the steps so tightly that it made his knuckles ache. The pain in his head spiked and the world dimmed. It was getting worse. And it was getting worse, fast. He wiped at his nose and came away with blood. That was new. _Shit._

A door slammed across the alley and Dean knew it was his cue. He vaulted over the railing and sprinted across the parking lot to the church next door. A woman and her two young kids were hauling boxes of clothing into the church. Dean waited until they went inside, then dashed to the truck, slid inside and dropped it into gear. Two minutes later he was back at the hotel room, gathering what he needed.

He dug through his dad's stuff and pulled out an old tattered book, flipping to the page he needed and ripping it out. Then he grabbed a bottle of Holy Water and a couple of boxes of shells filled with consecrated iron. He moved on autopilot, not sure how many times he'd done this already. Hundreds? Thousands? It felt like it had taken years just to figure out what was happening. And that's saying a lot considering he only had four hours at a time to work with.

He was out the door in ten minutes, sprinting to the back alley where he'd hidden the truck. It was further away, but when he parked anywhere else, the cops picked him up. Another three minutes and he pulled up in front of a small shop that proclaimed "Palmistry and Fortune Telling". A coughing fit shook him and left blood on his hands. He wondered what would happen if he died. Would his dead body appear back in class when the loop repeated?

He walked in, ignoring the greeting from the lady behind the counter, and grabbed the items he needed. He knew he'd be gone before she could stop him and if he took Snow Road instead of Jackson Drive the cops wouldn't catch him. Besides there was an old graveyard on Jackson and he needed cemetery dirt and a sprig from a holly tree growing on a child's grave.

He pulled the truck up next to the impala five minutes earlier than ever before, grabbed the supplies and ran toward his dad. He couldn't drive out. If he did that, his dad would panic at the sight of the unfamiliar truck and just light it up. He could see John carrying a bag of salt toward the pile of debris. He pushed himself to run faster, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side.

"Dad!" John paused and looked at him, taking a step away from the pile. The debris shifted and moaned and John spun back to it, tossing the salt on it. He reached for his lighter.

Dean, just yards away, almost cried. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't. "Dad. Help me."

The plea froze John in mid-movement. He spun toward Dean.

"Help me." Dean's legs gave out on him and he fell, coughing hard and spewing blood onto the snow. John was there in a second. "Dean? What the hell?"

Dean shoved the page of the book into his dad's hand. "Don't… burn…" The world spun around him. "Please… help…" The blinding pain in his head spiked and a sudden light engulfed him.

* * *

Dean opened his eyes to unfamiliar and welcome darkness. His dad's voice carried through it. "Take it easy, Dean. You'll be fine."

"Did you…"

"The witch is dead and the curse broken." He brushed a lock of hair off of Dean's forehead. "You were caught up in the curse when he tried to save himself. How did you figure that out?"

Dean tried to think. Failed. "I can't remember." The loops were all jumbled in his head.

His dad frowned. "Can you remember anything?"

"It was so long ago." Dean managed. _So very long ago._

His dad squeezed his shoulder. "Forget it. He's dead and you're safe."

Dean closed his eyes and for the first time in longer than he could remember, slept.


End file.
